


how to commit tax fraud (with the help of a friend)

by orions



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Fake Marriage, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orions/pseuds/orions
Summary: The details are fuzzy but one thing’s for sure: Eddie married Richie fucking Tozier last night. They have a pair of shitty rings and official looking documents with their names and signatures on them to prove it. Now they just have to find a way out of it.Or, Eddie wakes up with a hangover and a wedding ring. Things quickly spiral out from there.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 170





	how to commit tax fraud (with the help of a friend)

The first and only thing Eddie is aware of when he wakes up is his head. More specifically, how it feels like it’s about to roll off of his body. The ache gets worse with every second that he isn’t asleep, and his mouth feels bone-dry and absolutely disgusting, as if he drank a shitton of alcohol and didn’t brush his teeth after, which, _oh wait_ , that’s exactly what he did. 

Eddie squints one eye open and jabs a finger at his phone. It’s four in the goddamn _afternoon_ , and his screen is entirely filled with notifications. 

He closes his eye again, then hears a loud snore to his left.

Years of sleepovers have rendered Eddie an expert on identifying his friends off of snores alone, and the person snoring next to him is definitely Richie fucking Tozier. Eddie rolls over to look at Richie, who’s half sheathed in the blankets as if he started to crawl under the covers but knocked the fuck out before he could finish. They’re both still wearing their clothes from last night, and Eddie’s gonna have to wash his sheets twice just to get the smell of liquor and smoke off of them. 

Eddie looks away from Richie and feels the first twinge of anxiety start to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. His memory of the night before is full of blanks. Eddie hasn’t been blackout drunk in years, and even on a good night, his trust in his drunk self is minimal. His trust in his _blackout_ drunk self, especially if aided and abetted by Richie, is non-existent.

Eddie groans, screwing his eyes shut and rubbing at his face with both hands. Something catches on his cheek, and he blinks an eye open again to peer at his hand. There’s a plastic ring on his finger that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. It looks like something that came out of a kid’s store, cheap and fragile looking. It’s on his left hand, right on his ring finger. 

His wedding ring finger.

_Shit._

***

The Night Before

“You will not get drunk tonight.” Eddie tells his reflection. Next to him, Stan snorts. “You will not get _that_ drunk tonight.”

Eddie’s been pep-talking himself for ten minutes now. He rarely bothers dragging himself out of his apartment for nights out, more than happy to stay in with Stan and drink cheap wine and watch too much TV, but it’s even rarer that all of the Losers are available on the same night, and Eddie can’t even pretend he’s anything but thrilled at the prospect of a night with everyone.

Thrilled, but also preparing himself for the worst. Nights out with the Losers almost always means getting shitfaced, and Eddie is a horrible drunk. He is every drunk stereotype rolled into one tiny body, and there’s really only so much humiliation he can take.

“You’re gonna get drunk.” Stan says matter-of-factly. Eddie meets his gaze in the mirror and glares. “We’re _all_ gonna get drunk. Don’t fight it. By the end of the night we’re probably gonna get banned from McDonalds again and you’re gonna be in a corner flirting with Richie.”

“I will not be in a corner flirting with Richie!” Eddie sputters, outraged. The McDonalds thing is probably true. 

“Face it, Eddie,” Stan flips the switch in the bathroom, turning the lights out in a bid to lure Eddie out and away from the mirror. “You end every night in a corner flirting with Richie.” 

“I flirt with more people than just Richie!” Eddie protests. He senses more than sees Stan rolling his eyes.

He _does_ flirt with more people than just Richie. Eddie can’t help that he’s a flirtatious drunk, among all the other horrible things. He’s flirted with _Bill_ before. And Stan. And Ben, and Mike, and Bev, and perfect strangers, and, fine, Richie. 

It’s possible that Richie gets the brunt of Eddie’s clumsy, drunken flirtations, but that’s only because Richie is a flirt himself, and it only encourages Eddie. Richie is the only Loser that bothers to flirt back with any sort of conviction. It’s definitely because of that and definitely not because Eddie’s been a little bit in love with Richie for eons. 

Eddie looks at his reflection again, now mostly obscured in the darkness. 

_You will not flirt with Richie tonight._

***

Eddie has never been good at following his own rules. 

“I fucking love this song!” Eddie slurs, leaning heavily against the table. “We should dance, Rich! We should - ”

Eddie gets up and sways dangerously. Richie laughs, unsteady when he rises from his seat to grab Eddie and sit him back down. 

“You’re a fucking mess, Eds.” Richie snorts, as if he isn’t sitting across from Eddie with his shirt half undone and his glasses near sideways. “You’re even worse than Ben, and he just did the macarena in public.”

“Then I’m obviously not worse than Ben.” Eddie scoffs, looking wistfully towards the dance floor. “We should dance.”

It’s what Eddie had been doing before Richie dragged him outside, mumbling something about a water break. Richie’s timing was always the worst. Eddie was sure that the tall blonde in the corner was about to go talk to him. He probably would’ve been a way better dance partner than Bill, who’s all arms and no rhythm. 

“Later, Eds, later.” Richie promises. He takes a long puff of his cigarette. “Once the world stops spinning.”

Eddie giggles and braces himself against the table, watching the colors of the fairy lights swirl above them. Richie does the same and exhales, the smoke from his mouth wafting towards Eddie. Eddie usually hates when Richie smokes this close to him, but the drinks have rendered him downright amenable. 

All the good intentions that Eddie had set for the night were obliterated within a few hours of making them. It had started out innocently enough, if innocent means getting absolutely trashed in Richie and Bev’s apartment. Mike swears it’s the atmosphere - everything around them just seems to court trouble, and the apartment building perpetually reeks of weed. They all got drunk in record time, blaring 80s music and playing increasingly hostile courses of Mario Kart. Bill and Mike were barely speaking to each other by the time they all clambered into a couple of taxis to make their way here - some cheesy dance club that Eddie would absolutely despise if he weren’t so off his face. 

The last Eddie saw of Mike and Bill, they were making sorrowful apologies. Eddie is shocked they haven’t been kicked out already.

“Isn’t it crazy that we’re adults, Eds?” Richie plops face-first onto the table. His glasses crunch, but appear intact when he peers up. “I’m _twenty-five_. So old.”

It seems a little early for an existential crisis, but Eddie allows it. 

“Real old, Rich, real old.” Eddie agrees absently. He still wants to dance. He still wants to drink. Eddie sighs, and Richie clearly interprets it as some sort of encouragement.

“We file _taxes_. Taxes! What kinda bullshit is that?” Richie’s words are muffled by the table, but Eddie nods along anyways. “Ben and Bev are friends with that chick who had a baby. A whole fucking human being.”

Eddie giggles again, picturing Richie holding a baby. Richie always seems kinda scared of them. 

“You’re usually happier when you’re trashed, Trashmouth.” Eddie points out. Richie lifts his face from the table, the wind catching on his shirt and blowing it open a little. Eddie’s attention diverts to the dip of his collarbone. “We should drink more.”

“We’ll leave.” Richie says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “There’s some local band that’s gonna play a couple blocks from here. Real shitty, just asking to be heckled.” 

Richie pulls his phone out and squints at the time. He’s more steady on his feet when he stands, gesturing for Eddie to follow. Eddie trails after him, fingers gripping the back of Richie’s shirt so Eddie can’t lose him in the crowd. They wrangle up the rest of the Losers with a practiced ease, unphased when they find Ben and Bev making out near the bathrooms.

It’s a five minute walk to their next location. For seven drunk people, it takes fifteen. Richie keeps his arm linked around Eddie’s the whole time, and Eddie spares a thought for his discussion with Stan earlier, then decides he doesn’t fucking care. 

The bar Richie leads them to is seedier than any Eddie would voluntarily go into sober, and Eddie swears he sees one of the bouncers wave at Richie when they walk in. Richie always had a knack for finding the most disgusting places. 

But even with the weird smells and questionable sanitation practices, under the red lights, Richie is the hottest thing Eddie’s ever seen. He’s too drunk not to watch as Richie walks over to the bar, apparently tired of aggressively booing the band. His shirt is still open and his hair is mussed, and even in a hideous Hawaiian shirt, he looks _good_. Eddie’s a flirty drunk, a sad drunk, a messy drunk, and a mean drunk, but apparently he’s not a brave one. If he was he’d take Richie home and do what he’s been wanting to do for _years_ \- ride him into next week.

Richie comes back with enough shots to level out a village and Eddie does each one that gets pushed into his hand, willing himself to forget the image. 

“I’m gonna go for another smoke.” Richie says, right into Eddie’s ear. “Wanna come with me?”

Eddie dutifully ignores the look Stan gives him, and follows Richie out. 

The back patio is small and empty, just a couple of rickety looking tables with plastic chairs. The seat creaks dangerously when Richie throws himself onto it. Eddie’s careful as he sits next to him, a distant part of his brain wishing for a wet wipe and hand sanitizer. 

“Didn’t you want to heckle the band some more?” Eddie asks, and Richie just shrugs, already lighting up his cigarette. Bev is the one that always comes outside with Richie, the two passing a cigarette back and forth even though they always have more than enough to not have to share. Eddie wonders if she’s too busy being in love with Ben, or if Richie’s still feeling existential and has figured out that Eddie’s too drunk to tell him to shut the fuck up. 

“Jenna and Sunny got married.” Richie says, and Eddie’s too hung up on the fact that Richie knows someone named Sunny to properly respond. “I’m friends with people that are married. Because I’m _old_.” 

Existential, then. 

“That’s nice that they’re married.” Eddie says, a little forlornly. He feels gloomy all of a sudden, either because he’s been single his entire life or because Richie now has friends that Eddie doesn’t know about. 

Since they graduated university, Eddie doesn’t even know where Richie spends the majority of his free time. If he thinks about it too hard it bothers him more than he thinks it should, so he tries not to think about it at all. Eddie’s pretty sure this is the most time he’s spent with Richie in months, and he feels the rush of it every time he catches Richie’s eye. 

It was sort of a coincidence that the Losers ended up in the same place. _Divine intervention_ , Mike had said once. They all discussed where they were applying for college, but no one knew where they’d wind up. It sort of was a miracle that everyone got accepted in and around the same city. _See_ , Ben had said, _you can’t split up the Losers_. And then after, they’d all just...stayed. They got jobs around nearby, settled into their apartments, and that was that. 

Richie lives seven minutes away from Eddie. Eddie’s seen him twice in the six weeks.

“It is nice.” Richie hums, rubbing his face thoughtfully. He turns to face Eddie, their chairs pressed up close enough together that Eddie can see the faded freckles on Richie’s nose. “You know they get tax breaks and shit? That’s fucking unfair. What’s so special about married people?”

“They’re married.” Eddie says plainly. 

Richie grunts and focuses on his cigarette, brow furrowed. They’re close enough that they could shotgun the cigarette, if Eddie asked. Eddie hates the smell of cigarettes, nevermind the taste of them, but he remembers how he and Richie used to shotgun joints when they still thought Eddie had asthma. Richie would never let their lips touch, just move in almost nose to nose, like they are now, and let the smoke pass from his mouth to Eddie’s.

“Eds!” Richie shouts, and Eddie jumps so hard he spills his water across his hand and Richie’s knee. “Eds, _we_ should get married!” 

Eddie’s too busy uselessly patting Richie’s knee with his dry hand to fully grasp what Richie has said. He hums non-committedly, still patting away when Richie grabs his hand and pulls Eddie so close that he’s practically in Richie’s lap.

“Eds -”

“Not my name -”

“Let’s get married.”

Eddie blinks and waits for the rest of the joke. Richie says nothing, patiently waiting for Eddie to get his bearings. 

Eddie huffs, yanking his hand away, “You’re fucking stupid. We can’t get _married_ , Richie.” 

“Why not?” Richie protests, genuinely put-out. “What’s a little tax fraud between friends, Spaghetti? I’ll use the extra cash to buy a hot tub.”

Eddie hates hot tubs. They’re unhygienic and dangerous, and Richie can’t even be in hot water for longer than a minute without turning bright red. Eddie recites these facts almost regularly, and yet, with the last shots settling in, Eddie can almost start to see the appeal of it. 

He wonders if Richie has ever fucked anyone in a hot tub before. 

“I don’t know,” Eddie ventures, biting down hard on his lower lip. 

“It was a _good_ tax break.” Richie waggles his eyebrows. “I swear, Eds, we’ll split it fifty-fifty.”

Eddie considers this for a moment, looking at the wet spot on Richie’s knee. 

“I guess,” Eddie says slowly. “I mean, I guess you’re not totally wrong.”

Richie visibly brightens at the almost-compliment, “I’m really not, Eddie-man. I mean, what’s the downside?”

Eddie can’t think of any. What he can think of is how much he wants some french fries and how the band inside is somehow _still_ playing, even though he can hear Stan yelling at them. He wants to leave. He wants to go to McDonalds. 

He wants to buy a hot tub. 

“Google it!” Eddie decides. He feels a sudden burst of energy at the prospect of money and fast food. “Google where we can get married!” 

Richie lets out a little cheer, throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulder. He’s a genius. Eddie regrets every time he’s ever underestimated him. Eddie has no idea how any of the Losers haven’t thought of this sooner. 

“Found one!” Richie half-yells into Eddie’s ear. “It’s just out of town, but it’s twenty-four hours, like fucking Las Vegas or something.”

“Ok,” Eddie breathes. He stands up from his seat too quickly but powers through. “Let’s go now. It’s boring as fuck here.”

Richie nods hurriedly, stomping out his cigarette. When Richie grabs his hand again, Eddie feels the first wave of apprehension wash over him, a little nagging feeling in his gut that Bev would call his _intuition_ , or whatever.

It disappears as fast as it came. Eddie stays holding Richie’s hand as they leave the bar. 

***

The drive to the chapel either takes minutes or hours. Eddie’s ability to judge time is fucked, the world moving slowly as soon as he and Richie are out of the chaos of the bar. Richie crowds Eddie the whole car ride there - as if they don’t have a full backseat to themselves - and alternates between speaking too closely into Eddie’s ear or sprawling across Eddie’s lap to look out of Eddie’s window. 

The bright lights of the wedding chapel instantly make Eddie dizzy. Richie’s arm snakes itself around his waist as they go inside, but Richie’s leaning on Eddie just as much as Eddie’s leaning on him, the two dangerously close to collapsing on top of each other. Richie keeps his arm around Eddie even after they steady themselves, and Eddie let’s himself slump against Richie’s side, his cheek pressed against Richie’s arm. 

A woman comes to greet them, promptly handing Richie an iPad with prices and images of wedding packages. Eddie’s so drunk he can barely read, the words and images kaleidoscoping together. 

“How long have you two been together?” The woman asks amiably. Richie jabs at a random spot on the tablet. 

“We’ve known each other since we were kids.” Eddie says cagily. He spots a framed picture on the wall of a couple in shark costumes saying their vows.

“Oh, that’s lovely!” The lady replies, smiling at them both with genuine delight. Richie’s swiping his credit card and doesn’t acknowledge either of them, concentrating on pushing the right buttons. 

“No time like the present.” Eddie mumbles, mouth pushed against the cotton of Richie’s shirt.

“I love him!” Richie declares, jostling Eddie off. He starts to button up his shirt, mismatching the buttons and somehow making himself less presentable. “I love Eddie Kaspbrak!” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, swatting Richie’s hands away and fixing the buttons of his shirt with extreme concentration. He stills gets a few wrong. 

“You can change if you want.” The lady offers, mostly to Richie. “Did you invite anyone? We can wait.” 

“No, no, no.” Eddie stammers, terrified at the thought of leaving Richie anywhere costumes might be involved. “We’ll do it right now.”

“We should’ve brought our friends.” Richie says sadly. “I always told Bill he’d be my best man.”

Eddie frowns, feeling another twinge somewhere in his stomach that he passes off as guilt. He should’ve tried to look for the Losers at the bar. They would’ve wanted to come to his wedding - _their_ wedding. Him and Richie. 

“Unbelievable.” Eddie mutters, and leans against Richie’s side again. “Let’s just get this over with already.”

The lady smiles and leads the way.

***

Eddie won’t even remember most of the ceremony, not until Richie shows him pictures of it months later. Eddie will have vague memories of the white and pink lights that hurt his eyes, and Richie’s lopsided shirt. He’ll remember that when the officiant told them to kiss, Eddie froze, but Richie didn’t. Eddie couldn’t even overthink it before Richie leaned down to kiss him. It was quick and close-mouthed, and if it had been anyone else, Eddie would’ve counted it as one of the worst kisses of his life. 

Eddie’s lips had tingled after.

At the end of it all, they were given a tote bag, filled generously with extras that Richie had apparently paid for. Eddie was handed their marriage certificate, framed and official, signed by them both. 

***

“Where to now, my good sir?” Richie is speaking in the worst British accent Eddie’s ever heard. It’s not funny, but he laughs anyways. “We should celebrate! A toast to my hot tub! _Our_ hot tub!” 

Eddie doesn’t even know what side of town they’re in. They’ve been walking in circles for ages now, almost every store they’ve passed dark and shuttered. Eddie has seen approximately zero restaurants that aren’t fast food chains. 

“No more drinks!” Eddie says firmly, jabbing a finger against Richie’s chest. “I’m never drinking again.”

“I swear you say that every fucking time, Eds.” Richie laughs, ruffling Eddie’s hair. “What a night! We’re such a good team, you know?”

Eddie’s always thought so. Even when Richie drove him crazy, Eddie always thought so. Stan was right, like always. Eddie ends every drunken night with Richie, not just because Richie flirts with him, but because that’s Eddie’s favorite way to end any night. The drinks give Eddie an excuse for touching Richie as much as he now, all pressed against his side and warm from the body heat. It’s easiest to blame it on the drinks. 

“Milkshake,” Eddie says, then more insistently, “ _Milkshake_.” 

“Milkshake celebrations it is!” Richie pinches hard at Eddie’s cheek, ignoring when Eddie tries to bat him away. “I see a burger place down the street.”

“We’ll get them to-go.” Eddie says. He has a sneaking suspicion that Richie’s hyperactivity is mostly being fueled by exhaustion. Based on every other time Richie’s gotten dead drunk, they have about an hour before Richie collapses on whatever available surface is nearest, and Eddie will be damned if Richie ends up on a park bench again. “Then we can go home.”

“Yeah,” Richie puts his hand on top of Eddie’s head, fingers tangling up in Eddie’s hair. “Home.”

Richie wanders off while Eddie buys them milkshakes and cheese fries then settles into a booth so he can jab at his phone until he can see the little car moving towards him on the map. None of the street names are familiar, and Eddie’s trying to decipher their location when Richie plops himself down next to him.

“Our ride will be here in five minutes.” Eddie tells Richie, pushing a milkshake towards him. 

Richie nods a little absently, hand in a fist on his knee, leg bouncing furiously. 

“I got us something.” Richie says. “Since we didn’t have anything at the chapel. I swear that officiant was giving me the eye the whole time. God forbid I didn’t get you a diamond ring.” 

Richie’s fist slams against the table and makes Eddie’s cup wobble. When Richie pulls his hand back there are two rings on the table, plastic and cheap and probably intended for tweens who still get their ears pierced at Claire’s. Eddie hums thoughtfully and reaches for one, inspecting it closely before slipping it on his ring finger.

Richie reaches for the other ring and does the same. 

***

_Shit, shit, shit, shit_.

Eddie yanks the ring off and throws it inside his bedside table. His feet get caught in the blanket when he tries to launch out of the bed, and he lands hard on his knees. Richie makes a noise, but doesn’t wake up. Eddie’s knees protest as he stands too quickly, but he ignores it and half runs into the bathroom.

Throwing up makes him feel a little better. He brushes his teeth for twice as long as usual and pops two aspirin before taking what is possibly the quickest shower of his life. He starts to feel a little more human, and hates it. The more he sobers up, the more he realizes what a huge fucking mess he’s in. 

When he comes back into his room, Richie is still asleep and blissfully unaware of the fact that Eddie’s about to kill him. 

“Wake up!” Eddie shouts, clambering on top of Richie. “Wake up!” 

“What the fuck?” Richie groans, voice thick and low with sleep. “Oh my god, I feel like I’m dying. What the hell happened last night?”

Eddie considers smothering him with his pillow. He settles for wildy attacking Richie with it until Richie manages to wrestle it away from him.

“ _Jesus_ , what the fuck is wrong with you?” Richie pushes Eddie off of him, reaching blindly for his glasses and shoving them on. 

“You are!” Eddie yells. He grabs Richie’s left hand and pushes it in front of his glasses, too close for Richie to see clearly. “You and your fucking hot tub!” 

Richie pulls his hand back far enough to stare properly, zeroing in on the ring, “The hell is this?” 

Eddie launches back off the bed, rummaging around the floor until he finds the tote bag, throwing it into Richie’s hands. Richie reads the chapel’s name across the front and shrieks, tossing it back at Eddie’s feet. Some of its contents spill out, and Eddie spots a handful of condoms with _Congratulations!_ stamped onto the foil wrapping.

Eddie feels his headache kick up again. 

“Just get in the fucking shower.” He says, teeth clenched. “You smell like a shit. There’s aspirin in the cabinet.” 

Richie nods slowly and makes a noise in the back of his throat that Eddie takes as an agreement. 

Eddie slips out of the room, trying to keep as quiet as possible even though he knows whoever’s home heard him yelling. He stays in the hallway for as long as he can stand it, listening to the hum of talking in the living room. Eddie calculates his chances of survival if he throws himself out the window. There’s no other way of getting out of the apartment without being accosted, and Eddie has no clue on what he’s even going to say - not when he barely has a grip on things himself.

The details are fuzzy but one thing’s for sure: Eddie married Richie fucking Tozier last night. They have a pair of shitty rings and official looking documents with their names and signatures on them to prove it. Now they just have to find a way out of it. 

Eddie could easily go his entire life without explaining this to anyone.

Eddie takes a deep breath and steps into the living room. The couch cushions are strewn all over the living room floor in a standard nest - one they always use when more than two of the Losers are sleeping over at a time. Bill, Mike, and Stan look like three people who haven’t gotten off the floor in years, but the sight of Eddie jolts them all into an awareness that should be impossible for three people so obviously hungover . 

“Well it’s about fucking time!” Stan doesn’t bother to stand, but Eddie starts to back up anyways. “What the absolute _fuck_ , Eddie? First you and Richie fuck off to God knows where and then you two sleep till four in the fucking afternoon and we all have to sit around and wait to hear about anything!” 

“You could’ve woken us up.” Eddie says lamely. 

“Gee, we didn’t think of that.” Stan scoffs. “We tried! Richie bit Bill! Show him, Bill!”

Bill is staring at Eddie with quiet disapproval, mouth a thin line. He holds up his hand, and even from where he’s standing, Eddie can see the faded, pink imprints of teeth. Richie’s never been a morning person. 

Eddie winces and takes another step back. Just the thought of Richie makes his face feel hot.

“We were worried about you two.” Mike says sincerely. Eddie highly doubts Stan was worried, but doesn’t dare point it out. “We tried to call once we noticed you were gone.” 

Bill, still stony-faced, holds his phone out for Eddie to see. There’s over a dozen texts sent to Richie, all unanswered for a good two hours until, apparently, Richie had deigned to send back _lol we good_. 

“That’s all we got all night.” Bill switches to his messages to Eddie, all unanswered and still unread. “When we got home you two were already asleep so - ”

“Wait, you got home _after_ us?” Eddie interrupts, incredulous. “What the hell did you guys do last night?” 

“Don’t change the subject!” Stan warns, holding up a finger to silence Eddie. “You first!”

Eddie goes rigid. He debates outright lying to them, but Richie’s a lousy secret keeper, and Eddie’s only slightly better. He doesn’t even know how to say it, much less explain the clusterfuck of activity that was his wedding night. 

Jesus. He’s _married_. 

“Don’t be mad.”

Eddie starts at the sound of Richie’s voice. Richie looks uncharacteristically sheepish as he emerges from the hallway. He smells like Eddie’s soap and is wearing some of the clothes that Eddie keeps in his bottom drawer when the Loser’s leave things behind. The shirt is definitely one of Bev’s. 

“Don’t be mad,” He says again, and Bill, Mike, and Stan groan in unison, visibly deflating onto the floor.

“I told you it was going to be bad.” Mike laments. 

Richie shifts nervously and looks down at Eddie. Eddie nods once, resigned. If they lied now, the guilt would inevitably lead Eddie down the fact-track to ulcers and high blood pressure. 

“Eddie and I got married last night.”

Eddie flinches hearing it outloud. Nobody says a word, but Bill looks between the two of them suspiciously. Mike gestures with his hand for Richie to continue, obviously expecting a punchline. Richie huffs, turning on his heel and stomping back into Eddie’s room. 

He comes back with the marriage certificate. 

Stan snatches it from Richie’s hand. Bill hasn’t even spared it a glance before he’s levelling Eddie with a look that makes Eddie want to sink into the earth. Bill’s the last to look it over, and Eddie watches it as he reads it once, then twice, then three times. 

“S-s-stupid!” Bill launches a pillow at the both of them. “I c-can’t b- _believe_ -” 

Eddie doesn’t even bother to dodge, the pillow catching him on the shin with a surprising amount of force. 

“Is this a joke? This is fake, right?” Stan demands. Bill pushes the certificate away from him and Eddie fights a strange urge to pick it up off the floor. “That can’t be legal, can it? I _saw_ you both last night. You could barely walk straight, and you’re telling me someone legally married you?.”

“They got married at what - two in the morning?” Mike snorts. “Any place that marries people at that time won’t exactly be picky about it. _Fuck_ , guys.” 

“I know,” Eddie agrees quickly. He’s practically sweating. He _is_ sweating. “I know! We’re stupid and irresponsible and I will never drink again!”

“Like it matters now!” Stan finally rises from the floor and starts pacing, arms flailing emphatically. “What the hell else are you gonna do? It’s not like Richie can knock you up!”

“You have to fix this.” Bill urges. He has a look on his face that’s usually reserved for Richie, and Eddie finds he _hates_ being on the receiving end. “You were drunk, you can get it annulled.”

Eddie breathes out sharply. For the first time since he’s woken up, he feels a smidgen of relief. An annulment will wipe the whole thing clean - no harm, no foul. No one will ever even have to know outside of the Losers. He’ll never have to explain to anyone why he was married and divorced within a day. It’ll be like it never existed.

“We will!” Richie promises. “Really soon! If it wasn’t the weekend it’d be done already, I swear! Right, Eds?”

“Right,” Eddie says weakly. He wishes he still had an inhaler to use. “Don’t call me that.”

Bill seems placated, nodding firmly at the two of them. Stan stops pacing and braces his hands against his knees, looking winded. 

“Is no one gonna ask?” Mike says after a beat. He seems to be trying very hard to hide a grin. “So why’d you do it?” 

Eddie and Richie exchange a glance.

“Tax fraud.” Richie says simply. 

They barely dodge the remote. 

***

It only seems fair, after the fiasco in the living room, that Eddie shows Richie the same solidarity. They trudge out of Eddie’s apartment, bracing themselves to break the news to Ben and Beverly. Bev is without a doubt the scariest Loser, made even more terrifying by the fact that Richie actually has to live with her when all is said and done. 

“Jesus, marrying you was expensive.” Richie mutters, scrolling through his bank statements outside the door of his apartment. He’s been stalling for at least five minutes. “Do you know how much I spent at that chapel? _Hundreds_. As in plural.”

“You picked what you wanted!” Eddie protests. He still doesn’t even know what came in the package Richie oh-so-thoughtfully selected other than a fucking tote bag with congratulatory condoms. For all he knows, they have a timeshare somewhere. 

“I’ve always heard married life is expensive.” Richie continues breezily. “No one’s ever accused you of being cheap, Kaspbrak.” 

“Would you open the fucking door?” 

Richie groans but puts his phone away, then takes his sweet time, pretending it’s overly difficult to take the keyring off his belt loops and put it in the lock. Eddie sighs and huffs the whole time before finally knocking Richie out of the way and unlocking the door himself. 

Like usual, Richie’s dramatics were pointless.

There’s an obscenely large gift basket on the counter, decorated to the nines. Any possibility of explaining it away is squashed by the decorative _Newlyweds_ banner, as well as the frankly tacky card that reads, _Congratulations Eddie and Richie!_

“Fuck.” Richie whines; Eddie echoes him.

“Oh, am I looking forward to this.” Bev emerges from her room and raises an eyebrow at them, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “You two have got to be the biggest fucking morons I’ve ever met.” 

Ben appears behind her, badly disguised amusement written all over his face. 

“We thought it was a joke at first.” He informs them, twirling one of the elaborate ribbons of the basket around his finger. “You know your marriage certificate is already online?” 

“We all had our theories on what you guys were up to last night.” Bev is fully grinning now, very clearly enjoying this in all the ways that Eddie isn’t. “But _this_ is not even close to what we were thinking. Congratulations on being completely unpredictable.”

“Well, I aim to please.” Richie says, voice a little strangled. 

“What were the theories?” Eddie asks tiredly. 

“Just normal shit, you know? You guys wandered off and got lost, went to another bar and forgot to tell anybody, food run, alien abduction, citizen’s arrest,” Bev shrugs and then, with a smile, adds, “Sex.” 

Richie stumbles and hits his hip against the door knob, cursing furiously. 

“This is already doing wonders for the group chat.” Ben adds. This Eddie already knows; his phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he left his apartment. “We figured we wouldn’t mention anything until we knew you told the others. I’m pretty sure Bill wants to kill you.” 

Eddie also knows this, what with the flying remote. 

“Well, the missus and I need to sort some things out.” Richie snaps, still nursing his hip. “You guys can open the basket but don’t you fucking touch that chocolate assortment.” 

Richie hurriedly leads Eddie back into his bedroom. Eddie hears the rustling of the gift basket and Bev’s pleased exclamation before Richie slams his door shut. Richie’s room is smaller than Eddie’s, the bed taking up the majority of the space. Eddie flops back onto it, exhausted as if he hadn’t slept until four in the fucking afternoon. Richie climbs next to him, awkwardly patting Eddie’s hand in a way Eddie thinks is meant to be comforting. 

“We _should_ talk about this, right?” Richie ventures. He keeps his hand on top of Eddie’s. Eddie feels plastic and realizes Richie still has his ring on. “Make some sort of plan or something?”

“Was the gift basket what you spent your money on?” Eddie says instead. He feels capable of planning _nothing_ , seriously hungover and stressed the fuck out. “It looked expensive.”

“I have no fucking clue.” Richie admits. He shrugs off the tote back and hands it to Eddie. “Go wild, Spaghetti. What’s mine is yours or whatever.” 

Eddie sits up, sifting through the contents inside the bag. Eddie pulls out a small candle that, apparently, melts down into massage oil. There’s a million useless, decorative things with their wedding date on them that Beverly will inevitably find and use to torture them for eternity. Eddie thumbs through a book of vouchers, eyeing various deals for romantic meals and weekend getaways. He makes a mental note to keep a spa voucher.

“We could give some of this to Ben and Bev.” Eddie says, pretending not to notice as Richie examines the sex candle. “They’d like it.”

Everything is, appropriately enough, very couple-y. It’d all be pretty romantic if this wasn’t a sham of a marriage. As it is, Eddie’s never even been a part of a couple before. He’s only ever been on a handful of dates, most of which happened at the start of college when he was thrilled at the prospect of available men. The novelty had worn off pretty quickly. His last date was months ago - some guy that Ben had met at the architecture firm. He had been perfectly nice and impossibly boring. The kiss he had given Eddie after dinner had to be the _least_ passionate kiss of Eddie’s life, including the peck from Richie during their wedding.

Eddie pauses on the thought. Technically they’ve had their first kiss. 

Richie hasn’t ever really been part of a couple either - not the way Ben and Beverly are a couple, and never for more than a night or two. Eddie tries not to dwell on it too much lest he fall down the rabbit hole of self-pity and white wine. He has no right to be mad about it, but it doesn’t seem to stop him. It’s not Richie’s fault that Eddie has horrible taste in men and absolutely no guts to do anything about it. 

None of it matters. The marriage will be annulled, and Eddie can pretend like none of this has ever happened. He and Richie will go back to normal, and Eddie will never drink again for the rest of his sorry life. 

“We’ll take care of this on Monday.” Eddie says, more to himself than Richie. “It’ll be over before we know it.” 

***

It’s not. 

Monday passes, and then Tuesday, and then, before they know it, an entire week has come and gone. It’s not their fault that the hours at the courthouse directly interferes with their jobs. What kind of place closes before six? 

It’s not like they don’t try. Richie makes plans to go one morning but sleeps through his alarm, exhausted from his night at the radio station. Eddie makes plans to go the next day but gets called into work early. They have full-time jobs; Eddie has never figured he’d need to schedule in time to get an annulment from Richie Tozier. 

A week becomes two, and at some point, Richie stops wearing his ring 

***

“I don’t want to pry,” Stan begins. His tone suggests the exact opposite. “It’s just that Mike and I were chatting this morning and happened to notice that your one month anniversary is coming up.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Any big plans with the husband?”

Eddie grinds his teeth, staring steadfastly at the TV screen.

“Another dinner perhaps?” Stan continues, undeterred.

“We had a discount, it’d be stupid not to use it.” Eddie grits out. It was a really nice dinner, too. He’s glad they didn’t send Bev and Ben instead. “We’re busy, Stanley. The hours at the courthouse are shit.” 

“Sure, it’s not like you’ve had _any_ free time in the last month.” Stan scoffs, hiding a smile behind the rim of his wine glass. “You must be two of the busiest guys around.” 

“You know there are a bunch of papers we’d have to file?” Eddie snaps. “There are fees and shit. Did you know if I file then Richie gets served? He gets called the _defendant_. Like a fucking criminal! It says online an annulment is harder to get than a divorce.” 

“Then get a divorce.” Stan says plainly.

“No!” Eddie half-shouts. His wine sloshes dangerously in the glass. “I’m not gonna have a month long marriage on record! What am I, a socialite?” 

Stan chuckles. He’s still in an exceptional mood, which is more than a little fucking rude. 

“I think this is the longest Richie’s gone without hooking up with someone since we started college.” Stan notes. He takes another, more pointed, sip of wine. “I guess married life really does change people.” 

Eddie raises the volume on the television until Stan’s cackling is drowned out, then flips Stan off for good measure. 

***

At some point Eddie realizes that there is very obviously a group chat that he and Richie are not a part of. The Losers mobilize with a level of organization that can only be achieved by plotting and planning, and Eddie tries not to be hurt by the exclusion. 

“It’s your own fault.” Stan tells him one day. “We were gonna let you two handle it, but look where that’s getting us.”

Bill comes into Eddie’s room one day, finding the pile of annulment documents buried on top of Eddie’s dresser and moving them to a more prominent location near Eddie’s bed. Mike starts making gentle comments over text; Stan makes less gentle ones in person. Bev hangs the _Newlyweds_ ribbon from the gift basket up over Richie’s door, and Ben seems quietly pleased about the whole thing, going through their wedding vouchers and suggesting date night activities.

Eddie and Richie never talk about it, outside of the occasional vague reference to paperwork or courthouse hours. They stop promising each other that they’ll get it done soon, and start pretending as if it never happened in the first place. 

They’ve been legally married for two months.

“A toast!” Bev announces, standing up on her sofa with a mixed drink in hand. “To Richie and Eddie, who have now shared two months of wedded bliss for no other reason than sheer laziness!” 

Everyone but Richie and Eddie cheer.

Since the wedding debacle, the Losers have been hanging out with more regularity, and much less alcohol. They reach a consensus that only Richie is dumb enough to think of an idea so terrible, and only Eddie is dumb enough to go along with it, yet they still avoid bars as if the atmosphere itself could influence any one of them. Eddie hasn’t been drunk in two months, wanting to feel at least one semblance of control. 

“The marriage jokes are getting old.” Eddie tells Bev, pointedly not helping her down from the sofa.

“The marriage is getting old.” Bev retorts. She still makes it down gracefully. “You’d probably be almost single by now if you’d gone to the courthouse when Ben offered to take you. Richie’s even more impossible than you are.” 

Eddie glances back over to where Richie had been animatedly arguing with Ben over the best exhibit in the Museum of Science. 

“I’m sure you can find him.” Bev says with a wink. Eddie ignores her, but gets up anyways. 

Eddie always knows where to find Richie. If they’re at Bill’s, he’s usually in the kitchen, rummaging around for where Bill keeps his good snacks and always managing to find them even though Bill changes their location bi-weekly. If they’re at Eddie and Stan’s then he somehow always migrates to Eddie’s room, calling Stan’s _too stuffy_. 

When he’s home, he’s always on the fire escape. Eddie pops his head out the window, the light from inside haloed around him when Richie turns to look. 

“Bev and I have a limit for how much we can smoke inside.” Richie explains, quickly looking away. “We’re trying to keep a respectable home.”

“Your ice trays are shaped like dicks.” Eddie points out. He slips through the window and takes a seat besides Richie. 

“That was a gift.” Richie says curtly, then knocks into Eddie’s shoulder with his own and grins around his cigarette. “Plus Ben’s reaction is always fucking hilarious. Have you ever seen Ben Hanscom drink lemonade with ice dicks in it? Classic.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh, constantly in a state of amused pity for poor, sweet Ben. After proposing to Bev last year, Ben had moved into the Marsh/Tozier apartment with all the patience and grace of a saint. He endures dick-shaped ice, and in return, Richie has noise cancelling earphones that he keeps in strategic locations around the apartment. 

“Stan must be giving you shit.” Richie turns his head as he exhales, doing his best to keep the smoke from Eddie’s direction. “I mean, they’re all giving us shit, but Bev’s fucking impossible so Stan the Man must be a fucking delight.”

“I can’t blame them.” Eddie admits. “I’m gonna kill them, but I can’t blame them. Can you imagine what we’d do if it were anybody else?”

Richie barks out a laugh, unwrapping half of his blanket cape and extending it to Eddie. Eddie pushes up close to Richie, letting the warm fabric fall across his body, burrowing them both in together.

“I fucking wish someone else would pull this shit.” Richie sniggers, leaning his head back against the wall and exposing the long column of his neck. “When you put it that way, they’re going fucking easy on us, the pussies.” 

“It’s the shock.” Eddie explains quietly, eyes glued to a vein along the side of Richie’s throat. Eddie can smell Richie, the familiar scent of tobacco, warmth, and the citrus of his body wash. “They grow stronger every day. They won’t forget it, you know? Even after.”

After.

Eddie’s not lying when he says they’re busy, but he’s also increasingly aware of the lack of effort on his part. He doesn’t know why the annulment hasn’t been done, especially when it’s quickly become the single most stressful thing in his life. Maybe this is Eddie’s own fucked up way of sabotaging himself. Maybe it’ll become so unbearable that he’ll finally rid himself of his stupid fucking crush. 

He doesn’t know what Richie’s excuse is. Maybe he doesn’t need one. Richie will put anything off if he thinks he can get away with it. 

“It’s just a lot of fucking work, Eds.” Richie starts. His hand twitches next to Eddie’s, pinky resting on pinky. “I know you hate putting shit off but maybe - well, maybe -” 

“Maybe _what_?” 

“Can we just fucking forget it?” Richie turns to look at Eddie, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Just for a little while, okay? It’s a whole fucking process and it’s probably gonna be a pain in the ass. We’re fucking busy - I already feel like I’m gonna die, like, twice a week. We’ll tell the Losers to fuck off and get it done when we get it done - maybe in January. You always have time off after the holidays, right?”

It’s _September_. They’ll have been married for six months by then. 

“Thanksgiving is sooner.” Eddie says weakly. The prospect of ignoring the issue for another few months is tantalizing, even as Eddie starts to weigh the cons. 

“Holiday hours are always shit.” Richie scoffs, dismissive. 

Eddie is hit with the feeling he had that night at the bar. Like he and Richie are talking themselves into something potentially regrettable and not half as clever as they’re making it out to seem. It’s not like Eddie to put things off this way. It’s _definitely_ not like Eddie to agree to anything Richie has to say either, and yet here he is again: faced with something reckless and stupid, and flying into it. 

Richie’s pinky is still on Eddie’s, feather-light and soft. He’s staring at Eddie, waiting for his answer. Richie’s wearing a soft pink sweater that’s probably one of Bev’s oversized ones but still fits him too snug and short, baring an inch of his stomach underneath its hem. Only Richie could pull something like that off, or maybe Eddie’s just fucking crazy - like how Beverly thinks Ben looks cute in winter hats when his head is obviously too big to pull them off.

“In January,” Eddie says softly. The square of Richie’s shoulders loosen slightly. “We’ll do it in January. First thing of the new year.”

“First thing.” Richie echoes. “This is good, Eds. We have a plan.” 

They have a plan. It’s the first definitive thing that they’ve managed to come up with. When they crawl back into the apartment to tell the Losers, the judgement in the room is palpable. They all agree to back off, looking suspiciously smug in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach hurt. Bill has been not-so-quietly displeased for two months now, but says nothing now, just looks between the two of them and nods thoughtfully. 

“Isn’t that suspicious?” Mike asks, after he and Stan exchange a complicated look that Eddie interprets as an insult on his behalf. “I mean, don’t you think the judge will ask why you waited so long?”

“Sexual impotence!” Stan calls out. Eddie launches himself across the couch, colliding with Stan’s hand when Stan pushes him away. “Mike and I read that that was one of the grounds for annulment. Just say Richie can’t get it up. You’re practically a virgin again anyways.”

“Don’t you slander my dick, Stanley!” Richie shouts, standing from his chair so fast it falls down behind him. “It’s never had a complaint in my life!”

“Well, that’s definitely not true.” Bill mutters. 

“That was one time in highschool and I told you that in confidence!” Richie protests, clutching at his heart. “Well, I told all of you about it, but still! We’re not supposed to mention it!” 

“Shut up!” Eddie snaps. “I’m not going to go into a courtroom and talk about Richie’s dick!” 

He’s not going to talk about Richie’s dick at all, ever. Not since that time when he got a little tipsy with Bev and started waxing poetic about how Richie’s dick is probably in proportion with the rest of him. ( _Huge._ )

“Wonderful!” Richie says, still glaring at Bill. “We’re not gonna spread lies about my dick and we’re not gonna discuss Eddie’s sad lack of a sex life!” 

Eddie huffs indignantly, finally managing to shove Stan off the couch in retribution. He wants to talk about his sex life even less than he wants to talk about Richie’s stupid dick. Eddie’s literally _married_ and he still can’t manage to get laid. 

Bill meets Eddie’s gaze from across the room and, immediately, Eddie regrets not looking harder for Bill that night at the bar. He would’ve stopped it all before it could start.

***

Eddie told Bill that he was in love with Richie when they were fourteen. 

It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud. Bill hadn’t looked the least bit surprised, which Eddie expected, but it still felt like a weight being lifted. Bill had laughed and hugged Eddie, then made a joke about how Eddie had to be insane, how Eddie had to have the worst taste in the world. It was like a faucet had been turned on and Eddie couldn’t figure out how to turn it off again. He ranted for two nights straight about how much he wanted to strangle Richie everytime they worked together on a group project, about how gentle Richie had been that time Eddie broke his arm. Bill had listened with his usual unwavering support and only minimal judgement and then asked, “Why don’t you just tell Richie how you feel?” 

Eddie had laughed, a little hysterically, and ignored him. 

There had never been any official I Like Richie talk with the rest of the Losers - not because Eddie was keeping it a secret, but because he was painfully aware of how not a secret it already was. When they were sixteen, Richie had his first kiss. He’d relayed it in overly-graphic detail to everyone during lunch, and Eddie spent ten minutes in the school bathroom trying and failing not to cry. Bev had been waiting for him right outside the door to walk him to class, then spent hours after school cajoling information out of him before giving him the same ridiculous advice that Bill had. 

They’d all given Eddie the same harebrained line at some point or another: _Just tell him how you feel!_ Or even worse: _You know he likes you too_.

As if it were so simple. As if Eddie knew such a thing.

***

Stan always falls asleep during movie nights. He’s a terrible movie watching companion and usually Eddie would be pleased to have Bill’s company, except Eddie knows what’s coming the minute Stan starts snoring on the couch. Bill is a lousy young adult - he was practically born a middle aged man. He willingly took classes at eight in the morning during university and volunteers for early shifts at his job. He’s an absolute freak of nature.

So, when Stan starts snoring halfway through the movie they’re watching and Bill peers over at Eddie, wide awake and smiling pleasantly, Eddie knows what’s about to happen. 

Bill helps Eddie set up Stan at a more tolerable angle for his neck, sticking a pillow underneath his head and throwing a blanket over him. They walk into Eddie’s room, closing the door behind them as if there was anyone else there to listen. Eddie throws himself down on his bed, expecting Bill to follow him down. Bill stays hovering around the edge.

Great. Eddie _loves_ when Bill towers over him during important conversations. 

“Do I even need to say it?” Bill starts, raising an eyebrow down at Eddie. 

“No, but I’m sure you will.” Eddie says glumly, staring at a spot on his ceiling. 

“It seems you need to hear it.” Bill agrees. “If it makes you feel better, I talked to Richie yesterday, and you know I’m always harder on him. You’re a much better listener.”

“That does make me feel better.” Eddie sniffs, mouth quirking a bit. “You may continue.”

Bill continues, “You and Richie are the two stupidest people I know.” 

“This is you going easier?” Eddie sputters, kicking his foot out in Bill’s direction and missing. “What the hell did you say to Richie?”

“Not important,” Bill says dismissively. He lays back on the bed and puts a hand on Eddie’s leg, either soothingly or preemptively keeping Eddie from kicking out at him again. “So when are you going to admit that you and Richie are dating?” 

Eddie nearly falls off the bed.

“I am _not_ dating Richie!” He protests, voice cracking. 

“You are!” Bill counters, poking Eddie a touch too hard in the chest. “You two have been going out every week since you decided to _stay married_.”

“We have a plan!” Eddie protests. It sounds weak even to his own ears. 

“F-for next y-year!” Bill takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “When are you going to admit that you’re still married because you want to be and not because it’s convenient?”

“That’s not true!” Eddie hisses. His face feels like it’s on fire. He tries to kick Bill again but Bill’s grasp on his leg is too tight. “We both know how I feel about Richie. We _all_ know how I feel about Richie. This has nothing to do with that! I would never want it like this - you know that!”

It’s one of the great ironies of Eddie Kaspbrak’s life - that he would wind up hitched to Richie’s wagon and not even be able to enjoy it. It had gotten better since they decided to stick it out until January, mostly because Richie had stopped being such a twitchy little freak every time Eddie was around. They had more or less fallen back into their old rhythm, only with the addition of the Newlywed’s coupon book that they had steadily been working through. Eddie has probably gained about five pounds worth of fancy dinners and monogrammed deserts. 

But dates generally included things like _romance_. Or kissing. Or sex. His outings with Richie were like dates as much as his marriage was like a real marriage. 

“I don’t mean it like that, Eddie.” Bill assures patiently. “I’m not even going to pretend to understand this weird dynamic you two have, just stop making bullshit excuses and talk to each other about it.”

Eddie huffs loudly, crossing his arms over his chest, “What’d Richie say about this?” 

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Bill says primly. “It’s not like I would tell him what you said.”

Which is one of the reasons why Bill is so great, but it’s also pretty fucking annoying. What else is Eddie supposed to do? Ask Richie himself? That’s probably exactly what Bill wants.

“I didn’t trick him into marrying me.” Eddie says, mostly to himself. “This wasn’t even my idea in the first place.”

“What?” Bill props himself up on his elbows to peer down at Eddie, brow furrowed. “No one ever thought you did. Either of you.”

“The fact that I’m in love with him was irrelevant.” Eddie insists. “It didn’t even cross my mind when he asked. I really just wanted a hot tub and tax break.”

“That makes it worse somehow.” Bill says quietly.

“I’m just _saying_ , this isn’t like a scheme or anything.”

“I know that!” Bill is the one to kick out this time, jostling Eddie just enough to shut him up. “You’re a susceptible drunk and Richie’s ideas are fucking stupid. I’m shocked this didn’t happen years ago.”

Eddie huffs again, throwing an arm over his face. His heart feels like it’s beating hard enough for Bill to hear, rattling against his chest. Eddie _hates_ having important chats with Bill because Bill is always very honest about the fact that Eddie is a fucking moron. 

“We’re not dating.” Eddie says irritably, ignoring Bill’s long-suffering sigh. “He calls me _buddy_.”

Bill mutters something under his breath. Eddie makes out something that sounds like _‘absolute idiot’_ , but it doesn’t seem to be aimed at him so he ignores it.

“Fine,” Bill says. “You’re not dating. But you are married. It’s time to stop pretending you aren’t and think about why you are.” 

It’s a fair point. It’s a _good_ point. It’s exactly the opposite of what Eddie wants to do.

He hates being fake-married to Richie. It’s stupid and irresponsible and every other name Bill’s called it in the last three and a half months. He hates that they go on not-dates where Richie calls him _buddy_ and _pal_ and stands too close to him. He hates that he’s spent more time with Richie in the last month than he has since college. He hates that he feels queasy every time he thinks about annulment papers. 

At least now he can say that being in love with Richie is the second worst thing he’s inflicted upon himself. The first is marrying him. 

***

“I can’t believe you _still_ won’t tell me what Bill told you!” 

Richie thuds his head back against the wall and scowls down at where Eddie’s sprawled out on the floor, carefully tying up his boot laces. 

“Are you really not going to take a hat?” Eddie asks patiently. He’s taking longer than usual to get his boots on, reveling in Richie’s agitation. Richie’s been bothering him about Bill’s chat for two weeks now, like he actually thinks he’ll be able to wear Eddie down. 

“Are you really going to wear two jackets?” Richie counters, then scowls more fiercely. “Don’t change the subject, Kaspbrak!” 

Eddie doesn’t even bother to hide his grin.

“You won’t tell me what Bill told you either.” Eddie reminds him, waving a hand up in Richie’s direction. Richie doesn’t lose his scowl even as he reaches down to grab Eddie’s hand and help him up on his feet. “And it’s cold, Trashmouth, of course I’m wearing two jackets.” 

“I’ve told you more than you’ve told me!” Richie protests. He takes the scarf Eddie offers him and wraps it around his neck haphazardly. 

“All you told me was that he stole one of our vouchers!” Eddie scoffs. He starts herding Richie out the door of his apartment, hoping the change of scenery will distract Richie enough to shut the hell up. “And one of the good ones too!”

Eddie had told himself he was going to start limiting these outings with Richie. After his conversation with Bill, it’s like all Eddie notices is exactly how _much_ free time he has. There’s really no other way around it: If Eddie had wound up in this absolute shitstorm of a situation with anybody else, he’d have been filing the paperwork before the ink on the marriage certificate had dried. 

But it’s not anybody else, so when Richie showed up at Eddie’s door with two passes to the art museum - the ones that Eddie thought had been passed off to Bev and Ben months ago - Eddie put on his two jackets and started on his boots. 

“He also hit me with a pillow.” Richie sniffs, opening the passenger door to his truck for Eddie to climb into. “For, like, ten minutes. Sweet how you and Big Billy have the same preferred weapon.” 

Eddie spends the car ride with the radio on high, cutting off any of Richie’s questions and instead enduring Richie’s off tune singing. Richie’s forgotten the subject almost as soon as they enter the museum lobby, distracted by all the colors and commotion. 

Going to any kind of museum with Richie is always an exercise in patience. Richie can make even the most boring exhibits about a thousand times more interesting, but it generally comes at the cost of countless dirty looks and a few warnings from security guards. Richie finds it absolutely imperative to point out every single dick he sees. He also takes it upon himself to tell Eddie whether or not he would fuck the subjects of the paintings - first just the nude ones, and then all of them. Richie’s never been especially picky. Even the more questionable abstract paintings get his seal of approval. 

“I never asked for this.” Eddie laments, rushing Richie away when another museum goer starts to notice Richie leering at one of the particularly ugly paintings. 

“I’m anticipating your questions.” Richie says brightly, throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “What about you, Eddie Spaghetti? Anything getting you hot and bothered?”

Eddie nudges Richie in the ribs with his elbow but doesn’t get out from under his arm. “Please stop talking.” 

There’s another thing that Eddie’s becoming more aware of since Bill’s talk: just how much he and Richie _touch_. Richie’s always been a tactile person, not just towards Eddie, but towards everyone. Eddie’s always dismissed it in the past, but even he’s not so blind to know what it looks like when Richie links their arms when they walk, or squeezes his hand over the table when they go to dinner. 

It looks like a date.

“We should get dinner after this.” Richie says, as if he’s heard Eddie’s thoughts and is determined to prove Bill’s point. 

“Do we still have free dinners?” Eddie asks, surprised. He hates to admit that Richie’s gotten his money's worth on their wedding package, even though Richie still complains about the cost on the regular. They still have an array of expensive snacks from the gift basket hidden away in Richie’s room, and Ben and Bev enjoyed a brief, complimentary getaway that Eddie pretended he wasn’t jealous of.

“We don’t,” Richie admits, scuffing his shoe on the shiny museum floor. “I just thought it’d be nice.”

Eddie bites hard on his lower lip to keep from smiling like a maniac. 

“Ok,” He says quietly. He knocks into Richie’s ribs again, gently this time. “I could eat.” 

From the corner of his eye, Eddie sees Richie’s face crinkle up into a grin. He’s about to chance a more daring look when Richie starts to lead them both away and towards another exhibit, arm still looped around Eddie’s shoulders. 

“I’m not done here.” Eddie protests, grudgingly removing himself from Richie’s hold. “You talked about naked people the whole time and I didn’t even get to read about anything.”

“Fuck, why are you so boring, Eds?” Richie whines. He tugs on Eddie’s wrist, groaning loudly when Eddie doesn’t budge. “Come find me when you want to have fun again, you little nerd.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, half-heartedly pushing Richie away, “Don’t call me that.”

Richie laughs and lets himself be pushed. He gives Eddie a lecherous wink and reaches over to ruffle Eddie’s hair, then flips Eddie off as he walks away. Eddie feels his face heat up - as if Richie hasn’t been winking at him and touching his hair for years - and tugs at the collar of his sweater, willing the flush in his face to go away in case Richie happens to look back and notice. 

Eddie busies himself with the artwork, observing everything more closely now that Richie isn’t there to distract him with his commentary. He’s almost ready to go find Richie when someone comes to stand next to him, just the slightest bit too close to be unintentional. He perks at the idea of Richie not being able to wait for Eddie to go find him, then catches a glimpse of a nice, clean pair of slacks that are definitely not the ratty pair of jeans Richie’s wearing. 

“They’re beautiful, right?”

Eddie turns to peer up at the stranger, ready to answer as shortly as he can manage before making an escape. His thought process abruptly stops when he sees the guy standing next to him. 

He’s got a nice _everything_. 

“They are,” Eddie says pleasantly. 

It’s not that often that Eddie gets hit on. It’s even less often that he gets hit on when Richie’s around, and he’s not quite sure what the rules are in a situation like this, considering he’s out on what may or may not be a date with the person who is technically his husband. 

His technical husband who has, quite suddenly, popped up in Eddie’s peripheral vision. It’s impossible to mistake the blurry silhouette for anyone else. Even without the height and hair, not another person on the planet has ever charged at Eddie with that kind of gusto. Eddie forces himself not to react, already mentally preparing apologies to tell the poor man next to him, when Richie suddenly stops and turns on his heel, ducking back out of Eddie’s sight again.

The guy’s still smiling at Eddie, unmistakably flirtatious now. Eddie smiles back and fights his own impulse to look back at wherever Richie is. It’s not like Eddie has any real reason to feel guilty. If this was a date, then Richie could’ve thought to mention it, and it’s not like Eddie’s under the impression that Richie’s been going home to an empty bed every night. 

It’s mostly stubbornness and a desire to get laid that has Eddie accepting the phone number, making vague promises of a date. Meeting someone at an art museum is straight out of Eddie’s fantasies, and it seems stupid to waste it just because Richie is lurking in a corner. Eddie’s last good date was ages ago. Bev would probably be cheering for him if she were here.

Eddie’s mulling it over when he turns around and almost knocks directly into Richie.

“Jesus!” Eddie wheezes, stumbling back to keep himself from falling into Richie’s body. “When the fuck did you learn how to walk quietly?”

“What can I say, you were distracted.” Richie says, voice a touch too light. He raises his eyebrows down at Eddie and gestures vaguely at one of the paintings “You finished yet or what?” 

Eddie’s officially more concerned with weighing the pros and cons of dating while married than he is about the paintings. He shrugs noncommittally, “No, but we can keep moving.”

“Well don’t let me ruin your fun.” The affected lightness of Richie’s voice wavers. “You seemed to be having plenty of it.” 

Richie starts walking away before Eddie can reply, ruining Eddie’s contemplative mood.

“I said we could keep moving.” Eddie says tightly, grabbing Richie by the shirt and yanking him back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” Richie shakes himself out of Eddie’s grip, face clouding over. “Let’s keep fucking moving then.”

Richie stalks off again, storming out the closest set of doors without even trying to keep instep with Eddie. Eddie has to break into a near jog just to keep up with Richie’s long strides. Eddie misses the days he could tackle Richie without causing a scene, but it’s something much easier to do when you’re ten than when you’re twenty-five. 

“We already came this way!” Eddie objects.

“Well, I got bored.” Richie says brusquely, stopping to spin around and face Eddie. “If you want some _company_ you can always call that other guy back over instead.”

“I don’t - ” Eddie’s sputters. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. _I don’t see how it’s any of your business_ , maybe. _I don’t see why you have to be an asshole about it_ , is another possibility. And another: _I don’t want anyone else’s company_. Richie tries to rush away again, and Eddie yanks him back so hard Richie nearly falls over. “You can’t leave, you asshole! You drove me here!”

“Oh, so now you want to hang out with me?” Richie says petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Eddie whacks at Richie’s arms, “You’re such a child! What is your fucking problem?” 

“I have no problem!” 

“Bullshit! You just decided to be a moody asshole out of nowhere?”

“Sure!” Richie huffs. “The art makes me moody. I’m just an emotional kind of guy.”

“You have the emotional intelligence of a rock!” 

_Is this a date? Have we been dating?_

“Fine! I’m just bored and want to leave, happy?” Richie waves his car keys in Eddie’s face, purposefully obnoxious. “I don’t give a shit about any of this.”

“Fine,” Eddie grits out, lifting his chin. “You’re not pissed and you don’t give a shit. Maybe I’ll follow your suggestion then - you can go, and I’ll stay here.” 

“That’s not - !” Richie catches himself and scowls, looking up at the sky and exhaling sharply. “I mean, whatever. I _don’t_ give a shit. It’s not my fucking business. We’re not _actually_ married, you can date whoever you want.” 

“I know I can!” Eddie snaps. He knows he doesn’t need Richie’s permission, just like Richie wouldn’t need his if the tables were turned. It doesn’t make it any less infuriating. 

“Great!” Richie’s voice is too loud again, arms flailing. “Go date then!” 

_He’s jealous_ , Eddie thinks wildly. Richie’s fucking _jealous_. 

Richie gets jealous over all sorts of things. He takes it as a personal slight whenever Stan offers his fries to someone else before him, or when Mike chooses to sit next to Bill instead of him at the movie theater. Richie’s jealousy has always been harmless and overdramatized, less actual jealousy and more an opportunity to be extra obnoxious and loud. He’s never actually gotten mad before. He’s never _stormed off_ on Eddie before.

Except Eddie doesn’t think Richie’s ever been around when he’s gotten hit on, at least not so directly and never when they’re sober. For as few boundaries as there are between them, Richie’s always had remarkably little interest in Eddie’s love life. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever had any sort of meaningful conversation with Richie about dating or relationships. Richie always seemed to change the subject whenever Eddie brought up his dates or a guy at work he found cute. Richie was always the first to get Eddie to cool off when he was drunk and getting rowdy, always standing close by when Eddie started getting too friendly with someone or when someone got a little too friendly with him.

_Oh._

“You fucking - !” Eddie begins whacking at Richie’s arms again, feeling slightly unhinged. Richie fucking Tozier, who has never kept a single stray thought to himself in his entire life, but never thought to mention _this_. “You’re _unbelievable_!” 

“Just fucking leave it, Eds.” Richie hisses, trying and failing to block Eddie’s hands. “Can we go now? Or do you have a date to get to?” 

Eddie considers the consequences of drowning Richie in the nearby pond. At the very least he could shove him in. Eddie looks up at Richie, ready to push, but instead catches a glimpse of a brief, wounded look that Richie quickly tries to school into indifference.

“I don’t want to date.” Eddie says slowly. For once in his life, he refuses to let himself think about what’s coming out of his mouth. “I don’t want to date anyone else. I only want to date you.” 

Fighting with Richie always gives Eddie an adrenaline rush. It’s the only explanation Eddie has. There’s no other reason he’d say what he said, no other reason for reaching up onto his tiptoes, grabbing Richie’s face, and kissing him. 

Eddie has dreamt of kissing Richie for years. He’s constructed elaborate fantasies that lull him to sleep at night, and even more elaborate ones that he jacks off to and feels guilty about later. It figures that their now second kiss is even more disastrous than the first. They’re sober, to start, so Eddie’s immediately aware of what he’s done as he smashes his mouth against Richie’s hard enough to feel his teeth rattle. It would be humiliating if Eddie hadn’t abandoned his dignity months ago. 

Eddie yanks himself away with as much force as he had pushed in. He has the fleeting thought to push Richie into the pond anyways, just as a distraction. 

“Shit, sorry, I -” Eddie stammers. He’s not sure what he’s more afraid of - Richie getting mad or Richie laughing at him. “I shouldn’t have -”

“Eddie -” 

“Don’t say _anything_!” Eddie breathes out harshly. He _kissed_ Richie in _public_. He was emotionally vulnerable _in public_. This is a nightmare. “I’m leaving now.”

“Eddie you can’t leave!” Richie moves to stop Eddie, but Eddie easily evades him. It’s one of the benefits to Richie being large and gangly; his complete lack of coordination means that Eddie is always able to capture him but can never be captured in return. “Eddie, I drove you here!” 

It also helps that Eddie’s an amazingly fast runner for someone who was told they had asthma for most of their life. Richie can never make it more than a few feet without getting tired or tripping, and either he’s finally accepted this or he doesn’t care enough to try, because when Eddie takes off he doesn’t follow. 

Eddie only makes it far enough to be sure Richie will inevitably get lost or bored if he tries to find him. He wishes he had his inhaler, just for something to calm him down - just to feel something normal. He’s so in love with Richie that sometimes it feels like it’ll suffocate him, and now he’s just kissed him. If Eddie runs away to Canada and never sees Richie again, he knows he will think about this every single day until he actually does lose it. He didn’t even kiss Richie right, as if there needed to be any more proof of his woeful ineptitude in romance.

God, what will Richie even think now? Will he blame Eddie for putting things off just to indulge in some insane fantasy where he and Richie are an actual couple? Eddie’s not even sure that Richie was jealous anymore after all. Maybe Eddie’s just fucking delusional and projecting, and now Richie will _actually_ divorce him and take half his money. 

Eddie knows now that there’s no other way to move forward. He needs to get the annulment, swear Richie to secrecy, and pretend to never think of this again. 

***

Eddie knows he’s in a full on spiral. Every dish has been washed, the laundry’s been folded, and Eddie has organized all of the books in a way he knows Stan is gonna hate and mess up immediately. Aside from a cursory text to let Richie know that he’s home and safe, he’s ignored every message and call from Richie. It’s one of Eddie’s classics, really. Obsessive cleaning, self sabotage, and avoidance all rolled into one. 

The phone rings and Eddie eyes it warily. Bev’s picture pops up on his screen and he breathes out a sigh of relief before smashing the answer button. 

“What have I done?” Eddie laments, and bristles at the laughter he hears in reply. 

“I think you broke Richie.” Bev says casually. Eddie can practically picture her lounging on the couch, smiling in that way she does when someone’s being particularly stupid. “It’s about time, too, Eddie.”

“He hates me now, doesn’t he?” Eddie sprays more cleaner and welcomes the way he chemicals burn his nostrils. “He’s gonna ask for alimony.” 

“Christ, you’re such a little freak.” Bev says fondly. Eddie hears the little _snick_ of a lighter. If Bev didn’t live with Richie, Eddie would’ve been there ages ago to get high out of his mind with her. “You and Richie really just need to talk to each other.”

“What does that even _mean_ , Beverly?” Eddie feels like he’s about to pace a hole into his kitchen floor. His mind whirls around in circles: Richie in the red light of the bar, Richie in his bed with a hangover and a wedding ring, Richie during all their not-dates and how he’d hold the door open for him every time. “I wouldn’t even know what to tell him. That I’ve been waiting on him my whole life? It’s like I’ve put everything on pause just to nurture this _stupid, idiotic_ crush. Do you know how many people I’ve slept with in my lifetime? Less than Richie did that month post-graduation, I can tell you that fucking much!”

“Eddie, babe, you’re talking to someone who’s been with the same guy since high school.” Bev reminds him gently. 

“At least you’ve been with someone the whole time! I’ve been with no one! And for what? To _pine_? He must think I’m pathetic. Does he think I’m pathetic? Don’t answer that!” 

“ _No one_ thinks you’re pathetic.” Bev says firmly. “Just talk to him. We’ve literally been telling you this for years, so why wait any more? Don’t overthink it so fucking much.” 

“It’s not like high school where we saw each other everyday. Things are more delicate now.” Eddie wipes furiously at a spot on the counter, though he’s half sure he’s hallucinating it by now. “We barely even saw each other before this absolute fucking _disaster_ started. So I’m just gonna pretend this never happened, and you can tell Richie he can do the same, okay?”

“Eddie -”

“I’m going on a date!” Eddie blurts out. “I met a man, and I’m going on a date and putting this all behind me and we’ll never speak of it again! Thanks, Bev!”

“That is _not_ -”

Eddie hangs up before Bev can finish, and gets to work on cleaning out the fridge. 

***

The spiral slowly transitions from obsessive cleaning to pathetic wallowing, as it always does. Eddie hovers over the museum guy’s phone number but never dials it. Instead, he rummages in the pristine freezer for a pint of ice cream and plants himself into the couch. He spends a good half hour cajoling Stan into leaving him alone for the night, though he knows he has about twelve hours before Stan comes storming in with backup. 

He’s halfway through _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ when someone starts pounding on the door. The insistence can only mean either Richie or a serial killer is on the other side of the door. Eddie doesn’t bother looking through the peephole before swinging it open, half hoping for the serial killer. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Richie storms in, throwing his jacket on the floor and powering on before Eddie can start on his apologies. “What kind of mind games are you on, Kaspbrack? First you tell me you want to date me, then you _kiss me_ , and then you run off and I have to hear from Bev that you’re going on a date! God, you know how to play with a man’s heart.” 

“Richie, I -”

“I’m not done!” Richie points a finger in Eddie’s face, almost close enough to poke his eye. “I know I was being a dick at the museum, ok? You can call me an asshole and we can find a body of water for you to push me into because I _know_ you were thinking about it, you little bastard, but I need you to fucking tell the truth right now.”

Eddie barely manages to say, “Fine.” 

Richie seems momentarily surprised by Eddie’s complacency. He finally notices the state of the couch, with Eddie’s blankets strewn all over the place, the empty ice cream carton teetering on the edge of the coffee table. Eddie was about ten minutes away from breaking out the premade margaritas, and he’s grateful that Richie came before he could witness the full extent of Eddie’s sad little evening. 

Richie goes to stand in front of Eddie, bracing his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. Richie’s eyes are a little wild behind his glasses, and Eddie thinks of what Bev had said. _I think you broke Richie_.

“I love you.” Richie says, and Eddie almost collapses under the weight of Richie’s hands. “I have for a long time. I wanted to ask you out, but I’m a fucking coward so I never did, and then this whole fucking _situation_ happened. Every time we go to dinner I think I’m gonna tell you, but then you complain about the silverware or something fucking _cute_ , and I chicken out. But here it fucking is - I love you, Eddie, and I don’t except you to love me back or whatever, but just tell me if you meant what you said. Do you really want to date me?”

The silence feels like it stretches out for years.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Eddie says finally. He doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty for the way Richie’s face falls, just keeps talking at a lightning speed. “You’re telling me the Losers were right this whole goddamn time? What the fuck have I been doing with my life, Richie? We could’ve been together this whole fucking time?”

“ _Christ_ , Spaghetti, a yes or no would suffice.” Richie huffs in fake annoyance, his eyes all squinty and pleased in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach flip. “So you like me? Like, you _like_ me?”

“Are we twelve?” Eddie rolls his eyes and grabs Richie’s face with both hands. “I fucking love you.”

Richie exhales slowly, then beams down at Eddie. Richie _loves_ him. They’re in _love_. Eddie has no idea what this means for them - for their _marriage_ \- but he doesn’t really care either. When Richie starts to lean in, Eddie meets him halfway.

For the second time that day, Eddie kisses Richie. 

By far, it’s the best kiss they’ve ever had. Eddie doesn’t jam their mouths together in a fit of anger and adrenaline like he did in the museum, and, unlike their kiss at their wedding, it lasts longer than a second. Eddie moves slowly and Richie follows his pace, as if moving any faster would plunge them back into reality. Eddie is able to savor it, memorizing the way Richie’s lips feel moving against his, and then Richie’s hands move from Eddie’s shoulders to his waist, squeezing just on the side of too-tight. 

Eddie pulls back just enough to lick at Richie’s lower lip, quick and dirty. Richie makes a sound like he’s been punched, then pushes his tongue in Eddie’s mouth. Eddie feels a heat wash over him and tightens a hand in Richie’s hair. He starts to maneuver them to the couch, desperate to feel Richie’s weight on top of him.

“You’re so -” Richie pants against Eddie’s mouth, voice low and out of breath. “You’re a wet dream, aren’t you, Kaspbrack?” 

Eddie hums and nods, feeling emboldened by Richie’s hands tight on his body, by the way Richie sounds like he’s been hit by a truck. He untangles himself from Richie and sprawls back on the sofa in a way he hopes is inviting. 

“So we doing this or what?” Eddie asks, all faux nonchalance. His chest is heaving, lips swollen and bright pink. If Richie doesn’t get on the couch in the next five seconds, Eddie may possibly combust. 

Richie smiles, wolfish and slow, “Eddie-babe, we may never leave this apartment again.” 

***

Stan comes home around 8 am, when Richie is half naked in the kitchen scouring for sustenance. The two lock eyes, then Stan turns on his heels and leaves. Because Stan can’t keep his big mouth shut, the group chat starts going wild almost immediately. Eddie hides their phone in his nightstand, insistent on having at least a few more hours alone with Richie before the Losers descend. 

For the first time in a long time, he notices his wedding ring. 

“We’re married!” Eddie says incredulously. Richie shifts a little next to him, looking vaguely queasy. “We can’t even claim sexual dysfunction anymore.”

Richie groans and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes before slapping around for his glasses. Eddie finds them at the foot of the bed and carefully puts them on Richie. Richie’s eyes are soft as Eddie comes into focus, and he brings Eddie down by the chin to kiss him briefly before licking sloppily across his cheek. 

“God!” Eddie shoves Richie back against the bed, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Have you even brushed your teeth? I _know_ where your tongue has been.”

“You weren’t so picky an hour ago, sugar plum.” Richie says, looking pleased. Eddie’s scowl doesn’t dissipate, and Richie sobers a little. “I thought we’d wait a little longer to bring up the M-word.” 

“Doesn’t this complicate it?” Eddie says quietly. He gestures vaguely between their mostly naked bodies. “Can we even get an annulment now?”

Richie sighs loudly, throwing himself back against Eddie’s exorbitant amount of pillows. He’s suspiciously quiet for a long time, and Eddie thinks back to the night at the bar - to Richie’s prolonged silence before his disastrous proposal. He remembers how much he _wanted_ Richie that night, last night, every night. He leans down to lick along Richie’s collarbone but Richie speaks up before he can get there.

“Do you remember why we got married?”

Eddie pauses, mouth close to Richie’s chest, “The hot tub.” 

“Yeah - I mean, _no_ ,” Richie scowls a little, still staring at the ceiling. “It was to fraud the government and get a little extra cash, right? Why not just...do that? We’re already here.”

Eddie blinks, pulling back enough until they can look each other in the eye.

“You want us to stay fake married?” Eddie says finally.

“I mean,” Richie squirms a little under Eddie’s gaze, a flush high on his cheeks. “It’s not like I wound up married to Bill, is it? Who else am I ever gonna want to marry? I’m in love with you. Even if you sucked in bed, I wouldn’t want anyone else, and you do not suck in bed. Well, you do, _if you know what I mean_ \- stop looking at me like that. I promise when you get sick of me we’ll get a quickie divorce. I’ll just marry you again once I figure out how to win you back.”

“So we’ll be dating,” Eddie says slowly, skeptically. “But we’ll be married?” 

“I guess we’re just efficient, Eds.” Richie’s eyes shift around the room like he’s plotting an escape. Eddie presses more of his weight against Richie’s body, knowing Richie could easily knock him off but won’t. “If you don’t want to, I get it. I know it’s fucking insane, but I love you. Being fake married to you has been the best thing to ever happen to me, and divorcing you now would fucking suck, okay? So there it is. I don’t want to be _fake_ married to you, Kaspbrak. I want to be married to you.”

Eddie rests his chin on Richie’s chest and contemplates. Richie’s essentially just told him that he wants to stay married for tax fraud purposes, but then slid along the fact that he wants to stay married because he loves Eddie and wants to be with him permanently. Eddie’s always imagined the road to marriage to be a checklist - you meet, date, fall in love, maybe move in together, and then a whole other round of hoops before you settle on marriage. 

It’s just like Richie to skip steps. 

_Who else am I ever gonna want to marry?_ Eddie’s known his whole life that Richie was it for him. He never thought it could be this complicated. He never thought it could be this easy. Eddie is married to Richie Tozier, and he never wants it to be any different.

“Yeah,” Eddie says slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?” Richie says, then starts to laugh. Eddie laughs along with him, only slightly hysterical. Richie pulls Eddie down again, kisses him properly this time. 

“I don’t know how to do this.” Eddie admits against Richie’s mouth. Richie deviates from his original path, kissing Eddie wildly along his cheek, his forehead, his chin. 

“That’s okay,” Richie says gently. He kisses Eddie’s neck.

“I don’t know how to be in love with someone and have them love me back.”

“And I do?” Richie laughs again. When he pinches Eddie’s cheek, Eddie’s too disoriented to slap him off. “We’ll figure it out. Look how good we’re doing already.” 

Eddie nods, feeling breathless and vaguely dizzy. He settles more comfortably on top of Richie, then kisses his husband. 

***

“How the fuck have you been doing your taxes without me all this time?” Eddie pushes Richie out from in front of the laptop, gesturing furiously. “This is why I wanted to do this months ago! Who the fuck doesn’t keep all of their receipts?”

“Who the fuck _does_? Didn’t you used to want to be an accountant?” Richie leans back on the office chair, the back teetering dangerously. “Account away, Eddie boy.” 

“I’m gonna kill you.” Eddie says confidently.

“As long as I get my hot tub.” Richie replies breezily.

“You are _grossly_ overestimating our tax break.” 

“Well it’s a good thing I married for love.” Richie says sweetly, then wheels himself back in front of the desk, settling Eddie into his lap. “I’m just happy I can say I beat Bev and Ben down the aisle. She still has a _fiance_.”

“ _We_ beat Ben and Bev down the aisle.” Eddie corrects, the little furrow in his brow easing slightly. “Not that they give a fuck. I think Ben’s just happy you and Bev finally left that shitty little apartment behind so they can be in love in private. Bev’s _euphoric_ about the bathtub situation in their new place.” 

“Yeah, she likes to marinate in all her oils or whatever.” Richie tangles one of Eddie’s curls around a finger and gives it a little tug. “Ben promised when he builds them a house that he’d leave a shed for me in the back for when you kick me out.”

“Promises, promises.” Eddie mutters, still typing away until Richie gathers his hands and the spins the chair around. 

“Are you sad we didn’t get a real wedding?” Richie asks. “Should we hijack Ben and Bev’s?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but wraps his arms around Richie’s neck, leaning in so they’re almost nose to nose.

“I don’t even remember our wedding.” Eddie whispers conspiratorially, then shrugs. “Maybe for our five-year anniversary we’ll do one for real.”

Richie positively beams, looking all bright-eyed and tender like he always does when Eddie talks about the future. Eddie would tease him about it more, but he would be devastated if Richie ever learned to curb his bouts of weepiness and sentimentality. Richie is a soft-hearted idiot, and he’s turning Eddie into one too. 

“Just say the word, Eddie baby.” Richie promises. He wheels them further away from the desk, the chair wobbling under their combined weight. “Not so keen to divorce me now that you’ve seen my paycheck, huh?” 

Eddie shoves against his chest. He’ll never admit it, but he _was_ surprised by Richie’s income. It’s not that he thought Richie was destitute, but Richie’s odd choices in secondhand clothing and love for fast food value menus had led Eddie to certain conclusions that were, apparently, entirely wrong. Richie’s _good_ at his job and, even if Richie won’t admit it, Eddie knows it’s only a matter of time before his career really starts to take off.

Eddie and Bev have been plotting for months on how to convince The Losers that moving to New York is the next logical step. Ben and Richie’s careers would thrive, and Bill could become a proper pretentious writer. He’s already been planting the seeds with Stan, casually bringing up articles about the birdwatching scene in New York during their weekly nights of wine drinking and shit talking. 

Richie will be an easy sell. Eddie’s quickly learning how to harness the power of a well-timed _I love you_ to make Richie teary eyed and susceptible. Eddie wonders if it’s too gay to have a wedding ceremony in Central Park. They could always go rustic and do it upstate, in some orchard or whatever else lies in New York.

“What are you thinking about?” Richie inquires, jostling Eddie with one of his legs. 

“Our wedding,” Eddie answers honestly. Richie makes a noise and buries his face in Eddie’s neck. “Maybe five years is too long.”

“Our one year is coming up quick!” Richie says hopefully, muffled into Eddie’s throat. 

“I don’t want to step on Ben and Bev’s toes.” Eddie says, getting a mouthful of Richie’s hair for the effort. “Maybe for our two year.” 

Richie peers up to look at Eddie like he hung the moon. Something about it shakes loose something in Eddie’s chest. Before he can think about it, he says, “Propose to me.” 

“ _What?_ ”

“Propose to me,” Eddie demands. Then more confidently, “Properly.” 

“Oh, Eddie, my darling honey bear,” Richie begins, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses further up his face. “I love you more everyday, even though you’re a mean little bastard. Actually, I love you even more for it. You’re an animal in the sack and -”

“I said _properly_ , Tozier!”

Richie grins, his face going soft. He gathers up Eddie’s hands again, thumb tracing over Eddie’s wedding ring. 

“Eddie, my love,” Richie says. For the first time in his life, Eddie notices how it sounds more like a declaration than a joke. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I really do love you more every single day. There’s no one else on the planet I’d rather be doing this with. I’m gonna make you so happy, Eddie, so _please_ , marry me.” 

Eddie refuses to cry when they’re in the middle of doing taxes. He gently pulls his hands from Richie’s grasp, holding Richie’s face between his hands. He doesn’t even know how it’s possible to love someone this much. 

“I love you.” Eddie says sincerely, and kisses Richie’s cupid’s bow. “You’re never gonna get rid of me.” 

“That’s the plan.” Richie says weakly. 

Eddie turns around in Richie’s lap to hide his smile, refusing to be called out for his own romanticism. He wheels them back in front of the laptop, determined to finish up before Richie’s caveman brain can take over and derail their afternoon. 

When Richie is asleep, Eddie’s going to go ring shopping. They can keep their plastic ones in one of the keepsake boxes Richie likes to make fun of, but it’d be nice for them to have something more tangible. Something that’ll last for decades. Richie will probably cry when Eddie tells him about it - or maybe he’ll leave it as a surprise. It can be an anniversary gift. Eddie likes the idea that people will be able to look at his hand and just know. 

He’s married to Richie Tozier. In three months, they’ll have been legally married for one year, and Eddie’s never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on a tumblr post i saw years ago about how tax fraud is the most obvious reason to fake a marriage. i know nothing about the tax benefits of marriage but neither do eddie and richie
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at grumpyhale


End file.
